Now Playing
by born30
Summary: The rom-com. The war thriller. The love story? Tony and Ziva's saga through the lens of film genres.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** NCIS, its characters, and canon dialogue are not mine.  
 **A/N:** So, this will be my last Tiva fic for the foreseeable future. It's been a joyful (and sometimes heartache-y) journey writing for this beautiful couple and for all of you out there, my readers  & friends. I hope you've always enjoyed. *hugs* ~T

This is dedicated to Allison, the finest friend-soulmate a girl could ask for

 _You know what your problem is, it's that you haven't seen  
enough movies - all of life's riddles are answered in the movies._  
Steve Martin

 **(1/2)**

After his mom passed away, it was Humphrey Bogart (and his eight-year-old self didn't get half of what was going on in _Casablanca_ ). 

After his first serious girlfriend dumped him in college, it was John Hughes movies, reminding him what love could be.

After Wendy left him at the altar, it was Al Pacino and every Mafia flick in existence.

After Kate…there was no time for Tony DiNozzo to throw himself into film. No time to grieve another loss. The lights were dimming again, the projector warming up.

Her name was Ziva David, and she intrigued him beyond anything on the big screen.

/

"Yes, can I get another scotch on the rocks with a twist of lime? And, Angela?" Tony placed his hand on the delicate wrist of the blonde flight attendant. "Can you bring me one of those hot towels in a little while?"

"Of course, sir. I'll be right back with your drink."

Only once Angela was down the aisle did his hazel gaze reaffix on the blue vista, visible through the window at his shoulder. Yes, this definitely beat their usual bumpy trips home in the back of military cargo planes. After spending two days in the Bay Area tracking down and obtaining a statement from an elusive informant for the team's current case, the special agent was finally off-duty until they landed in D.C. He was taking full advantage of the downtime, especially the upgrade to first class and all the amenities that came with it. A presence moved in his peripherals, luring his focus away from the sky.

"That sure was quick…" Tony followed the stretch of tanned legs into a pretzeling sweater-wrap, and his beam only grew as he met the vision-in-cream's face. "You're not what I ordered, but only because I didn't know you were on the menu."

Arms braced between the seats, Ziva peered down at her partner with mingling amusement and confusion. He got that look from her a lot, now that he thought about it.

"Are you comparing me to food, Tony?"

"If the shoe fits…"

"Then what?"

"You wear it."

Her brows knit together, confusion clearly winning out. "Why is there a shoe in your food?"

Tony barely resisted rolling his eyes, settling for a gravelly exhale instead. "You're ruining the moment."

"What moment?" She reached up to the overhead compartment, rummaging in her carry-on. "Are you acting out a scene from one of your little movies again?"

"If I were, you would be the sexy flight attendant and we would already be in an upright and—"

Slicing off his words was the appearance of Angela the flight attendant. She expertly maneuvered her way around Ziva to deliver the beverage into Tony's hand. "Here's your drink, sir. Is there anything else I can get you?"

Over the blonde's shoulder, he spotted Ziva mouthing the suggestion, 'cold shower?'

There was an edge to his forced laugh. "No, not right now. Thanks."

"Are you interested in the in-flight movie?"

"Of course he is," Ziva chimed, appearing on the flight attendant's radar for the first time.

"Will you be watching the movie as well, ma'am?"

She held up the book produced from her luggage. "I will be fine, thank you."

Two pairs of eyes watched Angela leave this time.

"She is pretty," Ziva observed as she lowered into the seat across from him.

"I saw her first."

Tony's mischievous expression awaited her, but the smooth crossing of her legs told him as much as her enigmatic smile. They'd been co-workers for less than a full year; there were still things he'd yet to uncover about the mysterious Mossad Officer. They would face each other in the luxury nook for the entire flight, and he hadn't yet decided if the arrangement would be to his luck or his unusual torture. At least the view was enjoyable.

He felt her watching him ogle her legs. "What?"

Ziva employed the coy startle-shrug that she used when she hadn't been startled at all. "I was just thinking that with an active imagination such as yours, you would come up with something far more creative than 'sexy flight attendant.' It is no secret as to your inspiration."

"Be careful what you wish for, Officer David," he warned with a chuckle. "I could always make you the dangerous yet sultry femme fatale to my sophisticated and debonair man of mystery."

"That does not sound interesting to me."

"It's Bond."

"Whatever." She opened to the bookmarked page in the novel. "Now if you do not mind…I am trying to read."

Slouching into the roomy seat, the special agent tipped the glass to his lips, sipping to rich liquor. He tracked her chocolate eyes move over the top of the hardcover, ticking across the page, down and back, down and back. He forced himself to look away, or else be hypnotized.

"Doesn't matter anyway," he said, if only to keep his mind off the slightly—alright, definitely—inappropriate thoughts he was having about his co-worker. "In my movie, you'd be dead by the second act."

Her narrowed eyes peeked over the book. "Do you mean that?"

Tony's arms fell over the armrests, a gesture of innocence. "That's just the way it goes for the sexy bombshell, Strawberry Fields. Nothing personal."

"Then I would simply kill you first."

"You can't kill me. I'm Bond!"

The exclamation drew an irritated glare from a businessman on his iPhone across the aisle.

"I get it," Tony said after appeasing the passenger with promises to lower the volume. "You don't approve of my script. Does the bookworm think she can come up with something better?"

She slapped the book shut and tucked it into the seat, fingering strands of glossy, dark hair away from her face. "Let us just say, certain events would be very different if it were my movie."

Tony's eyes widened. "Color me curious."

"And 'curious' you will stay." Ziva sat back, crossing her legs again.

"Oh, no, no, no. You can't tease a man, get him all excited, and then…withhold. It's not nice."

"I will have you know that I have never _disappointed_ a man."

"Well, don't start now." At the mere contemplative glint in her eyes, Tony shifted in his seat. Maybe that cold shower wasn't such a bad suggestion.

"If it were my movie—" Ziva paused to expel a teasing little laugh. God, she was good at this. "There would be little, uh, _plot_ , yes? I prefer action."

He swallowed hard, throat scratchy, and reached for his drink. "What kind of action?"

Her hand intercepted the glass away from his parted lips, angling it to her own mouth. After swallowing and licking full, amber-tinted lips, she replied, "The kind that would not require your gun."

Tony froze under the deliberate placement of her hand on his knee. She stretched into his side of the nook, depositing the empty glass in his cup-holder. "I beg to differ," he rasped, impulsively grabbing her wrist.

Her laugh tantalized with huskiness. "You have seen this one before, then?"

"You could say that."

"If that is indeed the case..." Ziva leaned over him, giving him a fairly nice peek down her sweater; but it was her eyes that claimed him, and he had the sensation of spiraling into the toasted depths. "I see no reason to bore you with it any further." She flicked her wrist free and slid back into her seat, smiling wickedly.

Tony unthawed from stun, flashing a blinding dazzler. She _was_ good, but so was he. "Ha! You almost had me." He wagged a finger in mock accusation. "Almost."

Her smirk was delicious and he had the irrational urge to kiss it clear off her—

Angela the flight attendant returned with his hot towel and headphones, providing the perfect interruption. By the time they were alone again, Ziva was cloistered behind her book, all interest in their little game lost. Or so she wanted him to believe. That was fine with Tony. The leather seat was butter and the opening credits were rolling.

He was pretty sure he wouldn't have liked her movie anyway.

/

But there was plenty they could agree on that summer. Not just films, either. Take-out. Wine. Your place or mine? Usually hers. With their boss and mentor retired to a beach in Mexico and Tony thrust into leadership, they embraced the familiar. After they found their banter transplanted from the bullpen to her living room without losing its ease or spark, there was no turning back.

It was good, what they had. On her couch eating Chinese and watching Connery, they shucked their roles—the floundering team leader and the icy Mossad liaison, respectively. They were as they had always been, but also becoming _more_ with each visit.

"Why is it you watch movies?" she asked on an evening straddling the close of July and the blush of August.

"Well, there's a checklist, see. They've got to have a great cast, top-notch direction, and then there's entertainment value which—" Popcorn kernels rained on him in a buttery hail. "Hey, that's a waste of food."

Ziva snickered from the other end of the sofa, setting the now empty snack bowl aside. "Be serious, hm? They are a hobby for you, but why movies and not…"

"Boat-building in my basement?" They both sobered with the reminder of what they'd lost. Her bare feet were pressed to the outside of his thigh, warming that jagged patchwork piece of him through his jeans. "Well, I don't have a basement anyway, so…"

Bourne led a car chase through the streets of Paris as she sat forward, frizzy curls splaying over her shoulders. "There must be a reason," the Israeli prompted, her slender fingers teasing a popcorn shell out of his collar.

Tony hesitated, unconsciously touching the spot on his neck that she'd grazed. He fought off a shiver, running a hand through his hair, disheveling it. Why was his throat tightening up? _Dammit._ "You know, it's just… They're an escape, I guess. Always have been for me," he spit out, cursing their practiced ease and the single beer in his system. Better the blame rested there than with his emerging feelings for her. Feelings that stretched beyond lust and that he'd tried valiantly to ignore, ignore, ignore the past few weeks—while arriving at her doorstep every other night.

He didn't want to analyze that too much.

Ziva hummed, absorbing his hard-earned confession, and intoned, "That I understand, Tony, very well." Something in her tender gaze told him she wasn't giving him lip-service—and that it wasn't film-watching with which she empathized.

Everyone had something in their past they wanted to escape. Wasn't that what they were doing now? Alone in her apartment, after-hours, the movie that brought them there—the guise—all but forgotten…

She spoke again while his thoughts spun and spun; he leaned in to catch the misplaced words and wound up with her lips, perhaps his aim all along. But rather than breaking his face in five different places, she pushed her tongue into his mouth, intoxicating him with déjà vu: of French aliases and the realest fake sex he'd ever had. Her hunger, once awoken, nearly surpassed his craving for her.

Ziva claimed acreage on his body. Her feet on his thigh were no longer enough; she needed his hips to mount, his shoulders to grip, his entire being to consume. And to her hands stained red with desire, he surrendered: clothes, the hollow of his throat, his inhibition. Requests in kind were granted, and he suffered no shame feasting on the honey of her skin—nipping, licking, gobbling her up whole. She tasted simultaneously familiar and new, like everything else about them that summer.

It was reckless, they knew. They both knew. They didn't stop.

They didn't move from her couch until they were bared and cavernous, panting for air that smelled of them, their bodies sticky with long-silenced moans. He slept in her bed that night. A fresh love mark, the result of his exuberance, adored the skin below her collarbone; its likeness was a rose in bloom, and he traced the petals off the precipice of exhaustion. But rays of morning light brought with them a bleak reality.

Tony had grudgingly seen his share of romantic comedies, courtesy of many a blonde, airheaded date. He knew friends-with-benefits never worked out; one person caught feelings and ruined everything. As he was dangerously close to being that sad sap, not to mention how sleeping together would complicate things at work, where he was already in over his head… he could see but one solution.

Ziva was not his average dates, though. She detected his evasions—when had he turned down dinner and a movie at her place, especially now that sex was likely to follow?—and confronted him in the elevator at work.

"I sense you wish for me to stop asking." Her bronze skin ghosted pallid in the blue glow. "Do you not?"

He had no decent answer for her; he was a _supreme_ ass. He reached for her, remorseful, but thought better of losing his arm. "Listen, Ziva, it's that we work together, nothing more. I shouldn't have even let it go that far. And it was just that one night, you know, I don't—"

Her fist bashed the consult, throwing the stalled elevator into gear. They heaved toward the office.

"Yes, Tony," the liaison clipped, chin held up. "I understand."

A similar phrase had soothed him earlier that week; now her words knifed him in the gut. How swiftly they came undone. How predictable. The elevator chimed, and the last he saw as she swept off the steel box ahead of him was a precious rose shriveling out of view.

/

And it felt like betrayal, not of their brief benefits but of their friendship. It had been one night of pleasure, sure, but countless others of good company and long talks, of watching movies she rarely liked yet sat through to their conclusion because he wanted her to see them _so badly_.

And it felt like betrayal amidst Gibbs' return and Jeanne Benoit's secret arrival in Tony's life; amidst losing Jenny and spending the following summer oceans apart. Normal tainted unrecognizable.

And it felt like betrayal as the name Michael Rivkin grew ever more worn and heavy on everyone's tongues—until an act of self-defense (or was it jealousy?) drove the partners to a bitter severing on a tarmac in Israel: one staying, one leaving.

That time, it only felt like The End.

/

They told him she was dead. _Damocles went down…there were no survivors._ Poof. _Adiós._ Gone. But he couldn't buy it. Those kinds of things you know, right? He'd know.

Besides, there wasn't a film made anywhere in the world that could help him through this. He'd tried; dozens upon dozens of half-watched and then abandoned DVDs littered his coffee table. After his mom, Bogart. After Wendy, Pacino.

After Ziva….

Nothing. There was no balm to the loss of her. _After that, business as usual lost all meaning._ And the talkies followed suit.

The only film that mattered to him anymore was the one they said he'd never get to see: the one she didn't finish. A joke on the flight from San Francisco to D.C., it now stood for all the things left incomplete between them, dangling. Maybe it wouldn't be what he'd do with a blockbuster; at this point, he'd sit through subtitles. He'd sit through _The Sound of Music_ , her favorite film.

They'd squabble about it anyway, no matter the choice. That was something he missed, too. Her voice, because he was forgetting its exotic intonation, the way it sounded when she was mad at him, proud of him, amused by him, the idioms it botched—and that was the stick that broke the camel's neck.

Movies didn't end in the middle of arguments. They didn't end with partners estranged. There had to be another act. _This wasn't how it ended._ This wasn't how it was _supposed_ to end. Not for her. Not for…them.

It wasn't how it was goingto end, Tony was adamant, even if he had to write, direct, and star in the final scenes of vengeance himself.

/

It played out like an action flick. Or one of the overboard war films since 9/11, where every Arab in a _keffiyeh_ was a threat and desert torture cells were filled with captured, foul-mouthed American soldiers jonesing for their AK-47s. Personally, Tony was thinking of the _Alias_ episode where superspy Sydney Bristow was tortured by a sadistic dentist. Saleem Ulman fulfilled the 'sadistic' part, at least.

 _A mixture of Sodium Pentothal, several other agents effective in extracting the truth. It will not take long for it to start working._

The needle punctured his skin. Acid crept up the sides of his tongue, and Tony couldn't deny the rush of heat from the poison in his veins. That was new. And there were only two lone NCIS agents in the foul, rust-scented cell, not a Seal team (they waited outside). But it wasn't long until the terrorists proved him right about something.

The movie wasn't over; it was just getting interesting.

Ziva was delivered unceremoniously back into his life. Shoved into a chair opposite him and revealed. Dirty, splintered, vacant. Flesh, not ghost.

 _You thought I was dead?_

 _Oh yeah._

 _Then why are you here?_

A vision of her clean and smiling and sitting at the desk across from his at NCIS replaced the shell of her now. Another—riding shotgun in his car, fiddling with the presets on his radio. Another—deep hazelnut eyes peering over a hardcover at him. Another—kissing him in the dark of her bedroom as they fell asleep. How beautiful she was, how teasing, how capable. How he took for granted, and sometimes even spited, spending every day in her presence.

 _Tony! Why are you here?_

 _Couldn't live without you, I guess._

It was cinematic, really. A truth-serum-induced declaration of devotion. Those other War On Terror films were missing out.

Ziva stared through him. The fearless assassin. The eager investigator. His partner. Was that her soul—the tarnished, twisting scrap of white flag in the depths of her lifeless eyes?

 _So you will die with me. You should have left me alone._

The lies he wished to tell her, to tell them both, burned the inside of his mouth, just like the nuns of his youth swore any fib would. He strained against the toxin in his veins and the ropes binding his wrists. He strained against himself.

 _Look. Tried. Couldn't. Listen—_

Instead of more embarrassing admissions, he rambled about their escape plan and watched a grim defeat press down on her. Watched a single tear streak through dirt on her face when he asked, _Can you fight?_ He rambled because it distracted him from a possibility that he didn't want to believe, or even consider. Not again.

Because the thought that they were too late to save this breathing, talking, _living_ woman was a truth he would never be ready to accept.

Tony refused to leave her side through the well-orchestrated extraction of the encampment. That didn't change as they stood together on the make-shift runway, awaiting the military transport plane. His arm ringed her too-thin waist in imitation of a nervous parent ready to catch their baby's toddling first steps. In his other hand was a loaded machine gun, pilfered off the body of a dead guard.

Touching her made him feel better. It made her real to him. He wondered if it brought her any comfort in return, touching him. An inquiry to that end clogged up his throat. He was too afraid of her answer. Would she force him to let her go? He didn't think he could do that. Physically…couldn't. So as long as she wasn't pushing him away, he wouldn't bring up how much they leaned on each other.

There were other things he should've said, too. Things he needed to say.

"You look like shit." The serum was still in his bloodstream, but it was losing its accuracy. She looked like a wraith, a mirage in the desert that he clung to as tightly as he thought her emaciated figure could handle. "How do you feel? We're almost out of here."

A suffocating wind billowed up, and he coughed out sand.

Ziva shut her purple-bruised eyelids, caught in the hot, sticky swirl. The breeze grazed her grimy cheeks, kissing brittle strands of hair off days-old cuts slashed out sideways from her widow's peak. The draft slipped under the collar of her shirt—soiled with blood and sweat like everything else on her—and flapped the stiff fabric away from her body.

Tony couldn't look away. "Thought I'd lost you," he murmured on the wind, hoping it carried his words to her ears.

Her voice was sandpaper; it scraped over his heart, sloughing off a layer, painfully. "Spiders have nine lives," she whispered, the skin of her lips splitting.

A strangled wheeze bubbled out of him. It was almost laughter. It was almost like normal.

"It's cats, Ziva. The saying's that cats have nine lives."

How many had she used up already? Nausea at the morbid calculation threatened to overwhelm his joy, but he pushed it aside. There was another puff of sweltering desert breeze. Ziva reacted as she had before, and he felt the vibration of her appreciative hum in every part of him that held her close and safe. _Bliss._ He marveled at her as before, too. Like a hollow instrument, she produced beauty despite all that'd been carved out and sanded down. And he couldn't stop his grin or his strangely optimistic thoughts because—

Standing together at the edge of the world, filthy and tortured and _alive_ , made one hell of a beginning to their sequel.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** NCIS still isn't mine, and there's a direct-quote from "When Harry Met Sally" that doesn't belong to me, either. Also, I took liberties with the Georgetown Washington Park's outdoor cinema schedule as well as the S9 timeline.  
 **A/N:** Thank you all for the thoughtful reviews, well-wishes, and for sharing your personal connections to my stories. It warms my heart. :) ~T

* * *

 **(2/2)**

In any given film, healing time was five minutes, tops. Or the length of a music montage. In real life, Ziva's recovery from captivity had no pre-determined end—and no end in sight. That was how it seemed.

Even after their individual death wishes canceled each other out and allowed them, against all odds and logic, to survive; even once she rejoined the team as a probationary agent, Tony didn't get his partner back. Yet the work at NCIS stopped for no one's tragedies. People were murdered and their families grieved and their killers were brought to justice. In a morbid way, it was for the best.

The team never asked about her summer. They knew her too well for that.

They treated her as they had before, if with less reserve and more warmth. She was _theirs_. They uncovered small snippets of her that'd gone into hiding during the worst times; they did it without trying. By simply wanting and needing her, she was excavated, piece by piece, from the rubble of her former existence. Any gaps that resulted she filled with new parts from the person she wanted to become. An agent. An American.

And somewhere along the way—slowly, gradually—Tony and Ziva began picking up their own scattered remnants. It started with apologies; then a movie night in the squad room here, a Gibbs-mandated _tête-à-tête_ in the men's bathroom there. They both knew the steps to the dance, but were starting on separate beats of the music.

It was different, now.

The harm they'd done each other, the kindnesses. They'd filled up a lifetime's worth of heartache and turmoil and redemption in just a few short years, and it followed them—their collective history—like scars, souvenirs from battles fought both side-by-side and against one another. If their bodies got too close, would they see how well the marks lined up? If so, what would that prove about them? Something once, twice broken. Something messy and complicated…

Something, Tony decided shortly after bringing her home, he never wanted to lose again.

* * *

"It should fit right…here." Tony eased the 20" flat screen LED atop the, ugh, small bookcase. Next he was getting her a proper TV hutch since she wouldn't let him mount the damn thing like everyone else in the—

Ziva sashayed—it was the only word for her hip-swaying walk—into the living room and handed him a glass of lemonade. "I still do not see why it is so important to you that I have a television. I do not need one."

"Every American has a TV," he countered, gulping the cool drink. "Nix that. Most Americans have _multiple_ TVs. And if I recall right, you want to be one of us." The dinette in her kitchen was covered with government textbooks, reminding him of his girlfriends' places in college.

She slid both hands into the back pockets of her jeans, giving a noncommittal shrug of her shoulders. "I am not like everyone."

He couldn't argue with that—so he argued with her about DVDs, but it wasn't the fight he'd anticipated, either. The stack he brought was half new, half pilfered from his own library of film, and his memory of her likes and dislikes hadn't failed him.

"…And obviously your collection wouldn't be complete without this." _The Sound of Music_ , pinched between his fingers. "Just don't ask me to watch it with you."

Ziva gazed on the cover with affection, as if he'd handed her something of far more value than an $8 DVD. "Thank you, for all of this," she intoned, beaming those toasty hazelnut eyes at him like he wasn't supposed to get lost in them.

The special agent flashed a smile and turned to the bookshelf, lining up the cases amidst McEwan, Ondaatje, and Helprin. "My pleasure. My _obligation_ , really, after you told me you were living here in the Stone Age—come on!"

She picked up _The Blind Side_ before he could shelve it. "Tony, why are so many of these…what is the word? Upfilling?"

Shit. "Uplifting," he corrected, getting to his feet. "You know, I just thought you could use the positivity, and that one's just for Sandra Bullock's smoking hot legs—hey, ow! Easy, ninja!"

Ziva could turn anything into a weapon, even a DVD case. She whacked him on the knee, again. "I am—"

"Fine?" Tony yanked the case from her and slipped it onto the shelf. "I know."

Though familiar with her standard line, he had evidence to the contrary. While on assignment in Paris a month earlier, he'd had a front row seat to her nightmares; he could still conjure echoes of her screams in his head. _No, n-no! Stop!_ He didn't have to imagine the demons that haunted her subconscious. What was more, he'd once answered her desk phone while she was in the ladies room—which was how he'd inadvertently learned of the trauma support group she attended every Thursday night. Not to mention how she flinched anytime someone touched her without first warning her.

For once, he wasn't prying into his partner's personal life for the hell of it. He was an investigator; he'd put the pieces together. He was concerned.

"You do not get to decide what I need." Ziva retreated to the couch, narrowing her gaze on him; maybe she was cataloguing ways of further punishing him for, God forbid, caring about her.

Tony sighed, a whistling, tired thing. He plopped on the other side of the couch from her and opened his arms, surrendering to the charges. "I'm sorry, okay? I wanted to give you something…normal. Like what you had before."

Or was it what _they_ had before? The arrangement was eerie. It might have been a different apartment that summer Gibbs was gone, a different sofa that they'd made love on, but it was still them, and a movie. Or had that changed, too?

Ziva took her turn to sigh, releasing a modicum of tension from her body and tone. "What you must understand is that I do not want what I had then. That is why I am starting over."

"Yeah." He knew that. He did, but he hoped—"You're holding on to some things, right?"

The softest smile he'd maybe ever seen graced her mouth. "Yes, Tony, I am," she said, reaching out and placing her hand in his upturned palm. He stilled at the contact, thinking of standing on the runway in Somalia, clinging to her with all he had and all she could take. Now his fingers curled over the top of her hand, lightly. That was enough to keep her.

And when he gazed up from their union at the same moment she glanced up at him, the looks they exchanged were hopeful, indeed.

"Good, 'cause you know, I don't buy TVs for all my friends," Tony chuckled. "You should feel pretty special."

Her eyes sparkled, curious. "We are friends?"

They'd never been that, had they?

"Yeah, totally." He gave her hand a firm squeeze before letting go. "So, you're all set here. If you have any problems with the tech stuff, you're better off calling McGeek. That's what I do—"

"You are leaving."

He froze halfway off the couch, his smile stretching lopsided and embarrassed. "Um, I have a date, actually, and—"

"Ah, I see," Ziva cut in, winking. She made a shooing motion with her fingers. "Go, you do not want to keep her waiting."

"Thanks." He paused while stuffing his arm into the sleeve of his coat. "Hey, what about a rain check? I'll bring take-out, you pick what we watch…?"

"Do not bother bringing anything," she said, lifting a novel off the coffee table and tossing her legs out where he'd sat a moment earlier. "I will cook us dinner."

* * *

They cashed in their rain check the following weekend, and the next, and the next. The only time they missed the standing engagement was if one or the other, or both, had a romantic date, of course.

* * *

So it went as he missed her citizenship ceremony, but made it up to her with a trip to the shooting range. The pizza and beers afterwards were on him.

So it went as they lost Franks. She stood in the elevator, puffy-eyed from crying, scaring him with sad whispers of defeat and saturation. He wondered how far he might have gone to comfort her—farther than a hug and wiping her tears, admittedly—had they not been interrupted.

So it went as he spiraled deep into the SecNav's special assignment. There were nights when her arms wrapped around him and her reassuring whispers in his ear were all that made sense in his world.

So it went and went, their first real friendship in almost seven years growing strong and reliable…all the while a CIA agent from Miami promised her the world…

And then broke her heart.

* * *

Dusk settled over Georgetown Waterfront Park. _On the Waterfront_ trivia clawed to escape Tony, but corrupt union bosses and murder seemed in bad taste with the glowing venue, its main lawn transformed into an outdoor movie theater for the evening. Ziva wouldn't have gotten the references anyway.

"Popcorn! Get your popcorn, here!" The sandy-haired agent wove picnic blankets to their spot. He handed her the bottled water and yes, containers of the buttery concession staple.

"You did not have to do this," his companion insisted—the second time since picking her up and probably the eighth since he first suggested they attend the event. His knee cracked on the way down to their blanket, and he already knew the early-spring earth was bound to wreck havoc on his back by end credits. Discomfort was a small price, if the night did what he hoped for her.

"Ahh, ow. Don't mention it. I know how you like to snack during movies."

Over his curses at the 'no chair' policy in the park, Ziva said, "I did not mean the popcorn."

Tony heaved a sigh, kicking his legs out straight. "Look, I was just thinking how it was after Wendy left me bride-less at the altar. I took distractions where I could get them. Figured you could use some about now, too."

Even weeks removed from the damage, any tangent mention of CI-Ray and she clammed up, or else fumed in silence. As they sat surrounded by cozy couples, she only shrugged, her wandering eyes settling on him. "An escape. That is what you once called it."

Her memory was long, and he nodded. "Exactly."

"You still did not have to."

"Too late—now you've got to enjoy it." He lobbed a kernel up, caught it in his mouth, and beamed—not for the successful parlor trick, but for the bemused chuckles his antics elicited from his partner.

As if on cue, the massive screen lit up with projection. Tony stretched out, seeking a comfortable position to spend the next two hours. After several minutes of his futile adjustments, Ziva emitted a low growl and palmed the side of his head. He tensed under her firm grip, but his fears proved for naught as she guided his cheek to rest atop her thigh.

"There, better?"

Tony hesitated because it was one thing to cuddle up on his couch and another to do it in public, but he relaxed because the question was rhetorical. They were better together.

"You, uh, make a good pillow, David." He nuzzled her leg in tease. Where he expected her wrath, though, he received an equally teasing pinch to his neck. Her husky laughter masked his whines.

Ziva curled her torso over him. "Shh," she whispered into his ear, soothing the abused skin on his neck. "You are missing the movie. Beginnings are your favorite part, yes?"

Looking up through the curtain of her silky, bronze curls, Tony alighted on her smile and matched it watt for watt. This was his favorite, he decided, whatever this was or could be, some— He stopped the freight train of thought before it could gain steam. She was his best friend, and she was vulnerable right now. Whatever latent feelings he had for her took a back seat to his desire to cheer her up.

Nevertheless, it required great willpower to focus on Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal's tango of sexual politics in _When Harry Met Sally_. Ziva's warm leg under his cheek was problematic in and of itself without taking into account her willowy fingers skimming through his hair each time he fidgeted with the _exactly right_ tingles her proximity evoked from him in the first place. It was a vicious, addictive cycle. It lasted until "Harry's" speech about men and woman never being friends because _no man can be friends with a woman he finds attractive; he always wants to have sex with her._ A jittery tick attacked his jaw, buzzed in his skull, and Tony scoffed aloud. Oh, the irony.

"Where are you going?" Ziva puzzled as he climbed to his feet.

He didn't need her coming after him. "Drank too much water. Be back in a sec."

A wide lap around the park took longer than a 'sec,' and it did nothing to clear his thoughts of…things. He could hear the movie, a miserable choice considering the circumstances; he could single out their blanket, where Ziva sat alone. It was worse than wanting to sleep with her; they'd done that, and it was _amazing_ , but…. What Tony wished was possible with her was more involved than sex—and it had no precedent.

Turning away, he began another lap and soon came upon the refreshment stand. When he'd purchased the popcorn, he hadn't noticed the bins of roses, but the red, yellow, and white bouquets were now all he saw. He selected one perfect stem before a clear idea of what he'd do with it formed in his brain. And that was how she found him—buying a rose, for her.

"You do not like the film?"

Tony swiveled, his vision filling with her raised brow and crossed arms. Behind her, the screen was a fuzzy blur. "I guess you could say it's not my favorite genre."

"You are not a romantic, then?"

"I'm plenty romantic," he retorted defensively, thrusting out the rose, its petals white with pink tips. "Would an unromantic guy get you this?" Ziva had the flower to her nose, eyelids shut, when he realized his error. "Uh, don't read into that. It just reminded me of you." He winced; what point was he trying to make again?

But his partner smiled indulgently. "Thank you. It is beautiful."

Tony exhaled, his anxiety dissolving in her delight. "No problem. You wanna—" He gestured to keep walking, and she fell in step beside him. The night was transparent. Air filtered into his lungs, burning crisp and thin. He stole glances at her; she stared at the bloom, twirling the stem between her forefinger and thumb. Confusion was plain in the wrinkles around her eyes, and she spoke out of deep thought—

"I do not know why I choose men like Ray, Tony. They are not good for me."

A recent rooftop conversation wormed up from his memory. _He does not appreciate me_ , she'd confessed of CI-Ray, though the charge was universal of her boyfriends. Like he was one to judge. His track record with serious relationships was less than stellar. The _romantically dysfunctional_ label she'd given them was spot-on.

"Watch it—" Tony steered them around a muddy patch in the grass and onto the sidewalk. They stopped aside the Potomac, its half-thawed trickling like wind chimes in the darkness. He noticed a chill go through her and instinctively drew her close. He set a deliberate pace up and down her coat sleeves, up and down, up and down. "It's not you, Ziva. It's them. These guys don't see what they have in you and…you don't deserve that. You deserve a hell of a lot more, believe me."

There was no space between his confident words for doubt. Or rebuttal. Ziva gazed up at him, her expression of confusion replaced with something…quietly inquisitive. His hands stilled on her arms but didn't let her go. He never could, even when he should have. Even in death.

Ziva gnawed on her bottom lip, the only tell of nerves. Everything else about her was straight and true. "I cannot regret Ray, for being with him taught me something important."

There was no moisture in his mouth as he forced out, "What you don't want?"

"What I do," she amended, sliding a hand up his chest to cup his cheek. Their eyes met, and a hinge somewhere inside him unlatched, releasing him to her.

" _Ziva…_ " His forehead lowered down against hers.

And her hand shifted to his neck, holding him in place. "Oh, Tony…"

They stayed that way, breathing together within the faraway swell of film score. There was much more to say, but no words for the years, for the time they wasted apart. For once and for now, they would live their fate.

"We should take this…slow." Tony opened his eyes to her perplexity. "Not because I don't want it. I do, oh, so much."

She hummed, pressing into him. "As do I."

"I don't want to mess it up—us…up." That she was still in a raw state after Ray went unspoken.

"No," Ziva countered, surprising him. She held his gaze, brazen. Sure. "I know what I want, Tony."

His smile curved sideways. "Yeah, me, too," he murmured, his hands gliding over her neck, fingers knotting into the hair at her nape. They each drank in the other, all flushed and exposed, until her eyelids hooded, and his pulse skittered, and— lips grazed feather-light over and away. They gasped in tandem, sharing a shiver for the spark of contact. The next touch was firmer, lingering, then broken, catching lost breaths. A sound of longing wafted up between them, belonging to neither and both, but it was Tony who pulled back, giddy down to his bones. He rested his lips in her hair, inhaled her spicy scent, and together they were still.

* * *

It affected their work, as Tony speculated it would all those years ago. He could handle sometimes being unable to watch her back in the field and the extra hard head slaps when Gibbs caught him flirting with his girlfriend instead of working. What he couldn't handle, though, was the deception.

"I mean," the Senior Field Agent scoffed, flinging the hotel room door closed behind them. "Did that mark _really_ have to put his hands all over you? Was that _really_ necessary? I think not!"

"What would you have had me do, Tony?" Ziva was his foil, calm and rational while unwrapping the golden pashmina from her shoulders. "Was I to tell him 'No, I have a boyfriend, do _not_ share the offshore bank account numbers with me'?"

"I just think it was excessive," he argued, obliging her non-verbal request to unzip her dress. "And yeah, you knee'd him where the sun don't shine at the end there, but…um…" The silky material puddled to the floor, leaving his lithe partner exposed in nothing but undergarments, jewelry, and heels. His brain sputtered to form thoughts amidst the alluring visual. "I, uh…you know?"

"Hm." She released the pin securing the artful bun atop her head; bronze curls unfurled like waves upon the shore of her honey skin. She stood in front of him, half-naked, rose-tinted lips puckered, and allowed him to gawk. Oh, she knew exactly what she was doing.

Just as she had on their mission. And _that_ he knew, too.

Tony scrubbed at his face with both hands, hoping his two-day stubble disguised the stains of embarrassment on his cheeks. "Okay, okay. I'm being an idiot."

"Yes…" A smile danced on her lips. She pushed the suit jacket off his shoulders; it joined her dress in the growing pile of discarded clothing at their feet.

"So, is this the part when you get to say, 'Your eyes are especially green today, Tony'," he mimicked a sultry falsetto, "and then tease me for all eternity?"

Smirking, Ziva stepped back. Along with his jacket, she'd stripped him of his tie, cuff links, Oxford shirt, and belt in record time. She admired her handy work, head at a tilt. "Actually, I was thinking how this reminds me of a scene in _Mr. & Mrs. Smith_, no?"

The noise that escaped him strummed a chord between appreciative awe and intimate groan. "God, I love when you talk movies to me."

"I know," she purred, snaking her arms around his neck.

Their bodies sealed together—taut, skin on skin.

"Oh, you do, huh?" His hands skimmed up and over her hips, then slipped down under the hem of her panties. Squeezing.

Ziva touched her parted lips to the side of his neck. Exhaled hotly, "I have always known, Tony."

His shuddering moan was involuntary.

It would have been easy to kiss her, fall into the borrowed bed, and think later. But something told him they'd drifted from handsy bad guys and a jealous boyfriend, and he'd missed enough cues already that evening.

"Ziva?" He gently rocked her back and the aroused glint in her eyes nearly melted his resolve, but…yes, he had to tell her. Now. And although his palms itched, and his heart jutted erratic against his rib cage; and although it was painful and dizzy and exhilarating all at the same time, like how he knew _this_ ought to feel, he confessed, "You should also know I love you. Just…love you. Movie quotes, optional."

There hadn't been time to guess her reaction. But when her features softened and she dragged her thumb over his shy smile, and kissed him—oh so excruciatingly light—all his hopes were exceeded.

Into the dreamy bubble they occupied, Ziva whispered something foreign before her love came back to him in their common tongue. Her lips swerved. " _Despite_ all of your movie references."

They shared laughter, and collapsed into bed after all.

"Babe, are you telling me," Tony wheezed out with her full weight on top of him, "all these years my film trivia has _annoyed_ yo—"

Ziva's siphoned off his words with a swift thrust over his hips. "Shut up, my love."

His face seized serious. He grabbed her, under her ribs. Halting everything. "Say that again," he begged.

"Shut up?"

" _Ziva_ —"

"My love."

"Yeah," he sighed, rolling her beneath him. "Again?"

Ziva arched her neck, nipped at his chin. "Tony, _my love_ …your eyes were especially green tonight."

There was laughter over that, too. A quiet, humming happiness that echoed in their chests. Then Tony spent the rest of the night (and early morning) proving just how much his love for her transcended work, and film, and life itself.

* * *

When they returned from the op, they had a movie night at his place—and she never left.

* * *

A month later, they took the elevator, though protocol during an evacuation dictated the stairs. She grabbed him, fiercely— _Not without you_ —and he knew he'd follow her anywhere. When the earth stopped moving, Tony came to first, dazed with panic. _Ziva_. He rolled her limp body off his own, and whispered her name, and kissed her neck, coming away with lips pebbled in dust and the vibrations of a faint pulse. And he thought, with a smile of relief: his spider ninja had lives to spare, yet.

A month after that, they sat together on the rim of the bathtub, hands squeezed in tight union, and all Tony could choke through his grin was, "Heck of a plot twist."

A month more and they eloped by the sea at sunset, neither caring that it fulfilled every film cliché they'd made fun of over the years because for the first time—

Real life did it better.

* * *

"Tony? _Tony_. Wake up."

The whispers, coupled with the prodding of his arm, jolted the sleeping man out of dream colors behind his eyelids and into gray shadows. A nighttime hush; grainy light from the flat screen mounted above the bureau.

The bureau in their bedroom.

"Good, you are awake," the familiar accent continued from somewhere around him. "You buzzed off during the movie."

 _From Russia with Love_ , halfway over, streamed on mute. The choice of film went a long way in explaining his dreamscape; as far as he could remember, their elopement didn't involve rouge agents and car chases. His beautiful partner was the only constant. Whether in fantasy or reality, Ziva was the woman of his dreams.

Still coming around, he managed to correct, " _Dozed_ off."

"Whatever. I told you we should have simply gone to sleep when—"

Tony rolled over, encountering a barrier to his wife on the other side of the bed. He smiled in the dark. "I was dreaming…"

"Yes, I know." Her chuckles rang low, belying the slender fingers running like cool water through his hair.

"You were in it," he blurted, bunching up a pillow under his head. "A version of you, at least."

More silky chuckles. "I would certainly hope so, Tony. Or all you will have from now on are your dreams."

He couldn't decide if it was her nails scratching his scalp or her wicked threat that raised goose pimples all over his body. Who was he kidding? It was precisely her balancing act of danger and allure—a Bond babe in her own right—that intrigued him from day one to the present.

"I think I just miss you…I miss us. You know we—"

"Never got a honeymoon," she finished for him. "You always say that." What came from a combined decade of partnership and marriage? All their adventures, and memories, and jokes were shared.

Tony smiled. "But we didn't. I was going to take you back to San Fran, so you could ride a trolley down those crazy hills."

"And as romantic as that would have been," Ziva said, amused. "I will never regret what we received instead."

From the small, sleeping child between them, a feathery snore wafted up toward the ceiling. Tony would forever blame that genetic trait on her mother, right alongside the dark ringlets and pert nose; her hazel eyes and penchant for mischief, on the other hand, were entirely his fault.

"When did our sweet Avri climb in?"

"Just after you fell asleep, and then I was trying to get her _back_ to sleep…" Ziva straightened out her daughter's pajama shirt. "Perhaps we moved her out of the crib too soon."

"Nah. She was scaling the bars—literally."

"But she has not slept through a night in her own bed yet."

"She will, Ziva. When she's ready." Tony found the pudgy toddler legs he adored, smoothing one with his thumb. She was already gearing up for another growth spurt when it felt like she'd shot up a month earlier. Time really did fly…

Sometimes it felt like yesterday that he and his wife met in the haze of death and vengeance; watched each others' backs in the field; bantered about anything and everything at the office, on a stakeout, in their apartments. Now…well, now they could barely stay up past 10 p.m. to finish a movie or any other pleasant pastime. But it was still amazing how far they'd come, from strangers to partners to parents, and every incarnation in between.

"Yeah, you're right," he conceded, though there was never a doubt. "I wouldn't trade her for anything."

Tony felt the mattress dip, and then Ziva's heated lips pressed to his shoulder, his collarbone and jaw. She missed him, too, it seemed.

"I wouldn't trade _you_ , either," he growled, catching her mouth hungrily.

Retired Grandpa Gibbs needed to assume babysitting duties so Mom and Dad could go for a long weekend somewhere sunny, and soon.

Flipping onto his back, Tony fumbled for the remote on the nightstand, switching off the TV with a click.

"What about—" Ziva yawned. "…the movie?"

 _Which one?_ There was the innuendo of their rom-com days; their break-up war thriller; and after much-needed time and maturing, the love story. He couldn't forget what was playing now: a family-friendly flick at its finest. Together they made a long, messy saga…

Tony reached for his wife, intertwining their fingers in the air over the true joy of their lives, their sun and moon. "I like this one better," he whispered, so as not to wake their little girl.

"Which one is that?"

"Ours."

"Hm, that is my favorite, too." He couldn't see Ziva's smile of contentment, but he felt its warmth over their constellation of two, plus one. "Goodnight, my love."

"Night, babe." He kissed her forehead; he kissed Avri's plump cheek. "We didn't forget about you, sweetie. Love 'ya. Sleep tight."

And though it was not even close to the end of its franchise, bound for many additional storylines and spin-offs, as far as Tony was concerned, their life had already achieved a happily-ever-after worthy of the silver screen.

 _ **The End**_


End file.
